Seeking The Truth
by nerwende90
Summary: “House, what’s wrong?” I ask for the umpteenth time in two weeks. And I get exactly the same thing I got for two weeks: a deep, painful and incredibly loud silence. ONESHOT


**Title:** Seeking The Truth

**Author: **nerwende

**Summary: **"House, what's wrong?" I ask for the umpteenth time in two weeks. And I get exactly the same thing I got for two weeks: a deep, painful and incredibly loud silence.

**Disclaimer:** Still don't own 'em. Still wish I did.

**Author's note:** This story was inspired by a French song I just heard for the first time. It's "Histoire d'une absence" by Lea Castel and Soprano.

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**Seeking the truth**

"Can you turn the volume down a little bit?" I ask, but get no response. How surprising. This is House's new game: ignoring me. He's in the coach and drinking scotch _again_. He's drinking way too much these days. I don't understand. Did something happen to him that I don't know of?

"House, turn the volume down!" I almost yell, but he doesn't even blink. That damn TV's too loud and yet he's not even listening, or watching. Whatever he's staring at is a thousand miles away from here. He's probably thinking about his new case. You know, the one he wouldn't talk to me about. Why? Because my so-called best friend just wouldn't talk to me, period.

"This is so childish." I say out loud, shaking my head. But I know better than to wait for a reaction. "House, I never thought I'd say that, but _please_ open your mouth! Say something!" Still nothing. Nothingly nothing. I sigh again as I look down at my own feet. What the hell was going on in that messy brain of his? I'm an oncologist for Christ's sake, not a psychiatrist! When something disturbs House he'd yell, scream, accuse you of something… I've learn to anticipate and even avoid these reactions, but silence? I don't know how to deal with it.

Silence hits my ears as he turns off the TV. I look at him. God, he looks so… so… _Old_. I don't know, it's like a hundred years just crashed down on him. "House, what's wrong?" I ask for the umpteenth time in two weeks. And I get exactly the same thing I got for two weeks: a deep, painful and incredibly loud silence. But I've had enough. I stand up abruptly and face him, hands clenched into fists. "House. What. Is. Wrong?"

Chin resting on the top of his cane, he keeps looking down at the floor and sighs. "Stop ignoring me!" I yell, resisting the urge to shake him hard. Then for a second our eyes meet, and I think he's about to talk. But then he stands up, grabs his jacket, his keys and gets out. Just like that.

I'm so stunned that I almost forget to go after him. He gets in his car and turns on the engine. I barely have time to s go sit beside him before the car starts moving. "Where are we going?" I ask, but his eyes still avoid mine. "House, this is really starting to get on my nerve. Stop acting like a five year old and _talk_!" I'm not even sure if I expected him to obey. "Go ahead, don't talk." I huff, frustrated. "You're not getting rid of me that easy."

Needless to say, the journey's quiet. He didn't even turn the radio on. I'm looking out the windshield, trying to remember the last time we've been on that road. But that's pointless: I'm pretty sure I never came here. But House seems to know the way.

My thoughts are interrupted when he pulls over In front of a grey brick wall. "Where are we?" I'm not even looking at him now, it's more like I'm talking to myself. We get out of the car and House limps away and I must hurry to keep up with him. I swear to God he's the fastest cripple I've ever met. We reach a black grid and I shiver. "What are we doing here?"

House doesn't even hesitate. He goes on like he knows that place by heart. He makes his way through the alleys, not even looking around to make sure it's the right way. I look at the flowers here. They're so beautiful. The annoying cynical voice in my head notes they must be expensive, but I shut that thought down. This is so not the right time or place to think of that.

I look up and see House has stopped. Apparently he's found what he was looking for. I speed up a little to reach him. "Why did you need to come here?" I ask, and I almost have a heart attack when I hear his voice.

"Wilson…" he starts, and I swear I could collapse out of pure relief. "I'm sorry." He says, still not tearing his eyes away from the spot he's staring at.

"You ready to talk now?" I ask, praying he won't retreat back in his silence.

"I shouldn't have insisted…" he goes on, "I shouldn't have made you come with me that night."

This is the first time I hear him talk in two whole weeks, but now I almost regret his quietness. The way his knuckles are turning white as they're wrapped around his cane, the tension in his voice, the way his shoulders are slumped... Something's wrong, terribly wrong. What's he talking about, anyway? Then it all comes to me as if someone flipped a switch.

Two weeks ago, House had wanted to go to a bar before going home. And since I'm sleeping on his coach every night for quite a while now, I had to go with him. I wanted to make sure he'd make it home okay. What I couldn't avoid was the drunk driver that smashed into my car on our way home. I kinda blacked out, only to find myself in the E.R, lightheaded but alive. I was glad it'd happened right before my two weeks off (they'll end tomorrow by the way). Then I'd started looking for House. Cameron was too stunned, Cuddy was too sad and Chase was too busy to help me, so I had to do the research on my own. I'd found him sitting on a chair, looking shocked. He was okay too, but he hasn't said a word since it happened.

So that's what it was all about? He wasn't mad at me, he was feeling guilty for that night. "House," I start, clearing my throat. "If you'd known a guy would get drunk and drive his car into mine, yes it would be your fault. But there's no way you could know it would happen."

"You didn't even wanna come." House says, "I insisted until you said yes. It's all my fault."

I look away when I see tears forming into my friend's eyes. A whole hand's enough to count all the times I've seen him cry, but I still hate it. "House…"

"I wish you were there, Jimmy." He says, and it feels like being thrown in an ice bath. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm here." I say, confused. "House, I'm here!"

But he's fallen silent again. For the first time I dare to look at the tombstone he's been staring at.

_James E. Wilson_

_1969 – 2008_

_Beloved son, brother and friend._

The ground seems to give under my feet and I find myself breathing hard. Only I'm _not_ breathing. "House, what's going on?" I ask as panic's building up inside me. But House still doesn't answer. And I'm slowly starting to realize that he'll never answer again.

"I don't know if you can hear me," he says softly, "But I'm sorry. I miss you, Wilson." He says before limping back to his car.

I stay there, unable to move. I just spin around to see him opening the car door. "I'm not dead!" I shout, trying desperately to wake up from this nightmare. "I'm not dead! House, don't leave me here!"

He doesn't even look back before getting into his car and driving away. I turn around to look at my own grave. So it comes to this? That's why he wasn't talking to me? I always demanded answers from House, but this time, I wish I didn't know the truth.

The End.

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_Before anyone kills me, I must say that I didn't warn about the death!fic or labelled it as "tragedy" because that would have killed the element of surprise. _

_Feel free to review._

nerwende


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